


Love does not care for time or order

by kilodalton



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 21:16:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1241044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kilodalton/pseuds/kilodalton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are the kinds of adventures they have now, in this universe, hushed and quick except for the whispered sounds of their mingling breaths and bodies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love does not care for time or order

**Author's Note:**

> Written for prompts on 3 different ficathons: [The Bad Sex Ficathon](http://badsexfest.livejournal.com/), the [Plus One Ficathon](http://lillibetm3.livejournal.com/222247.html), and [TenToo appreciation week](http://doctor-in-blue.tumblr.com/post/54444919852/tickle-me-dalek-youll-grow-old-at-the-same). The title is from the Kama Sutra in case anyone was wondering.
> 
> * * *

_“Funny how the time goes rushing by, and all the little things we leave behind. But even then in everything I do, is a little bit of me and a little bit of you” — Mika, Stardust_

_“Vātsyāyana_ _says, that as variety is necessary in love, so love is to be produced by means of variety” — The Kama Sutra_

\--

He’s taken to doing this recently in the weeks since they’d started sleeping together, giving her a dark, hooded look and entwining his fingers with her own, ushering her to someplace new. She loves the way he looks at her during those times, after he finally gets her alone — a lazy, heated gaze, and _oh_ it doesn’t need saying what he wants in those moments. These are the kinds of adventures they have now, in this universe, hushed and quick except for the whispered sounds of their mingling breaths and bodies. Their bed isn’t used at all these days: the scratches still covering her back from the time against a tree in Battersea Park and the slight bruise on her shoulder from the quick, desperate time in the Torchwood elevator bear witness to some of his new, preferred locations. She doesn’t mind: if anything, a small part of her craves these kinds of displays of raw need, which are a kind of balm, slowly but surely beginning to ease lingering memories of empty beaches, French palaces, and new companions.

So she doesn’t know why she’s surprised when he enters her little sanctuary, and the cocoon of warm mist surrounding her in the shower is suddenly broken, as the curtains part, and he steps inside to join her. For a moment he says nothing, his own nudity conveying all Rose needs to know about his intentions. His eyes roam her body, lingering on the slope of her breasts and the curve of her hips. He exhales slowly and deliberately, his eyes flicking up to meet her own. Finally, he gives her a small smile and whispers _“Hello,”_ enfolding her into an almost chaste embrace and slowly bringing his lips down to meet hers.

As soon as she sucks his lower lip into her mouth, he moans, and all his control is lost. It’s not as if she minds it at all, the hunger with which he suddenly grips her, pushing her body back into the cold white tile, his breath catching in time to the steady beat of the hot, hot water gushing down on them from the showerhead above. Still, it’s an odd sensation to be skin-to-skin with him like this, the remnants of soap still slick on her skin and hands, coating her breasts with tiny bubbles and dissolving any friction between their naked bodies. He doesn’t seem to mind; on the contrary, he seems to enjoy it, melting into her with a whimper. It makes her feel needed, and wanted, and she can never feel needed enough by him. She pulls him in closer, soapy hands roaming down the musculature of his torso, smiling slightly to herself at the feel of the tautness of his body straining for her, clinging to her, as if she’s all he wants in this universe. With hitched breath, he murmurs _“Rose…”_ as he pushes his hardness against her, and if she lives for a hundred years she will never be tired of the longing with which he gasps her name.

Her back feels slippery against the wall, much slicker than it had been the other day when he pulled her away for an irreverent shag against the bathhouse wall at her parents’ pool party, and her hand instinctively grasps for purchase on the small ceramic soap-tray by her hip. She knows it’s not strong enough to hold her weight, but she can’t think about that too much right now, too intoxicated by his tongue laving up her neck, circling and suckling her pulse point, ghosting across her ear before his lips whisper hungrily “ _Fuck me.”_

Breathy and desperate, his hands slip down behind her soapy thighs, trailing promises with his fingertips, and her breath quickens as she instinctively pushes herself closer to him. He doesn’t tease her, doesn’t slip a finger inside her or against her, the intensity of his kisses and the way his hands clutch her hips tell her he wants her — _needs_ her — too much for that right now.

He coaxes one of her thighs up to encircle his waist, drawing himself in closer to her as she secures her knee around his hip. His tongue teases her jawline, nipping playfully at her the column of her neck, _and God that feels amazing_. He clutches his arm tightly around her waist and strokes her other thigh, as if to encourage her to lift it around him as well. She hesitates only momentarily, unsure of her footing, before her knee threatens to give way as she shudders when he suckles at the hollow of her throat. With a sigh she propels herself up and clutches feverishly at the soap-tray as he slowly sinks inside her, groaning an exhalation.

Almost immediately, she knows she won’t come, there’s not even a small chance. The angle is wrong, and the feel of both the insistent hot water and the slickness of her back against the stingingly cold tile is too distracting and uncomfortable. The soap-tray is almost out of her reach now, so she tries to steady herself by grabbing tighter onto his shoulder with one arm as he moves inside her. She strokes his back, trying instead to enjoy _his_ enjoyment, listening to his ragged breaths ghosting her wet shoulders with every thrust inside her body, smiling inwardly at the fact that _she’s_ doing that to him. She murmurs encouraging words to him, thinking of missed opportunities on space stations and black holes, and all the times and places she wished she could have been showing him this all along — how much she desires him, and wants to be desired in return.

“Are you going to —” he asks, a gasp and a plea all in one.

“I don’t need to,” she whispers. “But I want _you_ to.”

A momentary disappointment flickers across his face, but then his eyes close, his mouth hangs enraptured and open and panting slightly, and he tilts his head back and moans as her fingernails gently scrape his scalp. As he races closer to completion, his hands move down, gripping the soft curve of her bum. Eager for release, he moans softly and suddenly hoists her a little higher.

Rose gasps, not expecting the sudden shift in their position, and her arm flails as she loses her last tenuous grip on the soap-tray, and her balance along with it. Before she can bring her other arm around him to steady herself, or open her mouth to warn him, she’s already pitching sideways, her soapy back skidding against the cold surface of the wall as he slips out of her. In that one, perilous moment, his eyes shoot open as he realizes, horrified, what’s happening. Instinctively, he tries to grab her — and succeeds in hastily gripping her upper arm so hard she knows it will leave an angry bruise later —  but she slips out of his grasp in the steamy water which splatters across her face, into her nose and mouth, making her cough and gasp as she falls.

It happens so suddenly, but he is still her first thought — his eyes are still the first thing she looks for, his hand the first thing she grasps for. The last thing she sees before her head strikes something sharp — _painfully sharp_ — is his wide eyes and his face, guilt-ridden and shocked. Starbursts suddenly cloud her vision, and she feels oddly calm, marveling at how prettily the constellation in her eyes dances before her. He cries her name once, choked and fearful, and he quickly drops down to his knees and carefully gathers her into his arms, cradling her gently with one hand while shutting off that damned shower spray with the other. She smiles at him gently, and says _“don’t worry … m’fine”_ before her vision goes black and she drifts out of consciousness.

\--

She comes to a short while later, slowly and hazily. She hears the whir of the sonic screwdriver in the background, and she can feel it close to her skin, pulsating against her sore temples. She opens her eyes languorously and blinks quickly against the harsh light of the surrounding room, slightly disoriented. Her mind races, wondering where she is, and why she’s there, and her Torchwood-trained senses are on high alert until her vision comes into focus and she sees him, quiet and solitary. The mere sight of him calms her instantly.

He’s sitting beside her, on their bed, gently holding her hand in his own and gazing at her worriedly, his mouth tight and expressionless. He’s shirtless, she sees, and she wonders at this. As soon as she meets his eyes though, his gaze breaks from hers and drops down to the blanket covering their bed, as if he can’t bear to look at her. His head is drooped forward and she muses that his hair looks uncharacteristically flat and unstyled, carelessly flopping down over his forehead. It almost looks wet and she wonders why —

 _Oh._ The memories of the shower returns.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and to her ears he sounds almost broken.

“It’s not your fault,” she says, shaking her head slightly, uselessly really, since he is not even looking at her.

Her voice sounds tired and a little hoarse even to her own ears, but she strokes his hand reassuringly and attempts a smile.

“You have a concussion, and it’s _all_ my fault,” he corrects her, with a bark of what would almost be called laughter if it weren’t so short and self-deprecating. “It was all my idea, and you weren’t even … you didn’t even —“ he trails off, embarrassed and uncomfortable.

“Doctor … it’s fine. See? I’ll be fine. It might mean we just stick to bed for a while, yeah?” she says with a smile and a squeeze of his hand.

It’s an attempt to lighten the mood, but his eyes darken and she sees it’s had the opposite effect.

“I saw the scratches on your back when I carried you here,” he interrupts softly, hotly, his eyes still riveted on their joined hands. “That bruise on your shoulder. That was because of me too.”

“No…” she says, shakes her head, refusing to let him blame himself for this. She sighs and takes his other hand in her own.

“I never wanted that to happen, Rose,” he says softly. “I only wanted ...”

His voice breaks off for a long moment and she’s not quite sure what to make of it.

“You wanted what, Doctor?” she finally urges, gentle comfort lacing her voice.

“You must be so tired of all this,” he whispers, so softly she’s almost not sure she heard him correctly.

The words feel broken and worn down, mottled by worries that are completely alien to her, and her head snaps up in disbelief, wondering what he could possibly be talking about. She blinks back the pain from the sudden motion. “What?”

“I can’t give you adventure anymore,” he says quietly, his voice a little too casual, his eyes still staring at the fascinating blanket. “I can’t show you the stars.”

It only takes those six — _just six_ — words, but it brings her heart crashing down.

“But — you _do!_ ” she protests.

He continues on as if he didn’t hear her, “I didn’t want you to be bored with me…”

She starts a little at that, wondering if this means _he_ thought their life was boring now. This was a fear she’s had, locked and buried and sequestered deep down inside since he was left here with her.

“… and I don’t want you to be bored with _me_ ,” she replies, each syllable clutching onto every bit of self-doubt she’s had since they were dropped off in this universe. “I just … wanted you to want me. _You_ don’t have the stars anymore, you just have me, and I only wanted…” she trails off, feeling stupid. She can’t say that she wanted to be a replacement for his former life — how could she possibly replace all _that_?

At this he looks bewildered. “Of course I want you! I always have... I _chose_ this, Rose, remember? And I’ve never regretted it.”

They stare at each other for a short moment, unsure if this is a resolution or a beginning to many, many unanswered questions. Or, it suddenly occurs to her, perhaps it’s something in between. Maybe it’s something new, and vibrant, and undiscovered. Perhaps it’s a little adventure all on its own.

She decides to try again, one more time, to lighten the mood.

“Of course though…” she begins, hesitant but with a flirtatious smile. “You _did_ have me seeing stars again there, at least for a minute, yeah?”

This time, he grins, a sheepish grin, clearly apologetic. She scooches over on the bed and pats it, motioning for him to lie beside her. He does, willingly, and takes her in his arms, and they fall asleep to the rise and fall of each other’s breath.

Next time (and the next … and the next) when he takes her hand and brings her to someplace new for them, it will be _this_ place, lying entwined together as the stars dance idly in the sky far above them.

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=51110>


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